Chasing River

“Listen, I wanted to apologize for last night. I should never have come in like that.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry I ran.”

I smile. If he hadn’t, there was only one way last night was going, and I honestly can’t say how I’d feel about that this morning. As it was, my last thoughts before falling asleep were of him, and what he would feel like. My first thoughts this morning were of him, too.

In fact, all of my thoughts since I stepped into that pub two days ago have been of him.

“It’s okay. Really.”

“So, you’re not pissed at me, then?”

I chuckle. “Why would I be ‘pissed’?” If anything, the fact that he’s so concerned makes my knees weak with the thought of him.

“Nuala made it sound like . . . never mind.” A loud sigh fills my ear, making me wish he were here, in person. Just maybe not now, I accept as I steal a glance at the reflection in the hallway mirror. Smears of the residual black mascara that didn’t wash off circle my eyes, and my smooth curls from last night are now a rat’s nest.

“What are you doing today?”

“Probably sleeping this hangover off, as much as I hate wasting a day.” I begin to climb the stairs.

The doorbell rings. I freeze mid-step and turn, my brow furrowed at the door ahead.

There’s a long pause, and then, “Are you going to get that?”

“No. I’m not even dressed.”

“I don’t mind.”

“What do you . . .” I scamper down and to the living room window, my eyes widening when I see River’s forest-green MINI Cooper—a source of great surprise last night when he led me to it, seeing as I have a newer model, in red—parked next to Simon’s car. “Are you outside?”

“It’s really coming down now. Do you think you could let me in?”

This is not how I imagined our next meeting. But it’s pouring out there. I can’t leave him standing on my doorstep in the name of vanity. Spotting the long tunic sweater that I left draped across the chair yesterday, I quickly yank it on over my tank top. It just reaches past my underwear. It’ll have to be enough.

“Amber?”

I glance at my reflection again, this time in the hallway mirror. And groan. And then I open the door.

River’s eyes flash with surprise, grazing over me ever so quickly before lifting to settle on my face. He steps in, handing me a tall Starbucks cup on his way past, his T-shirt and track pants drenched, his hair plastered across his forehead. “I would have brought you a hearty Irish breakfast to go with those grapes but wasn’t sure if you could handle it.”

I take a step back, my breath likely as toxic as the taste swirling in my mouth right now. “And what’s in an Irish breakfast?”

He shrugs. “Bangers and beans . . . potatoes . . . eggs . . .” He reaches out, brushes away a stray hair from my cheek. “. . . black pudding.”

My stomach churns. “Maybe later.” Bonnie warned me not to eat that. It has something to do with actual blood.

He chuckles, watching me closely.

“I just need ten minutes, if you don’t mind.” My bare feet are slipping one behind the other, in an attempt to escape up the stairs.

He grabs my hand, stopping me. “How about I give you an hour. I’m going to fit in a quick run, but I have a bit of time after that, if you wanted to go out.”

My hangover is suddenly forgotten. “What’d you have in mind?”

He shrugs. “I figured I’d teach you how to drive on the right side of the road, maybe?” We share a chuckle. “Then maybe see an artist about some ink.” A pause. “Unless you’d rather get that sleep.”

“Yeah. No . . . I mean . . .” I stumble over my words with excitement. “That all sounds great.” Any time with you is good. “When do you have to be at work?”

He glances at his watch. “In three hours. So I’ll pick you up in an hour? Is that enough time?”

I nod, holding my breath as he leans in to kiss me on the cheek.

I watch his easy movements as he runs down my path. Much like he did last night. Only the dread I felt before is gone, replaced with anticipation.

I tear up my stairs toward the shower, peeling my clothes off as I go, the throb in my head forgotten.

My chest heaves with relief as I park.

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” River sits in the passenger seat of his car, his legs splayed, his elbow resting on the armrest. The picture of calm. As if I didn’t go the wrong way down a roundabout and almost crash his car and put us in the hospital.

“I’m actually a good driver,” I promise, peeling my white-knuckled fingers off the steering wheel to open my driver’s-side door and climb out. His car is just like my car at home, only backwards. And everything about driving these streets feels wrong. Except having River here, beside me.

“I believe you. It’s not your fault.” He meets me at the front of the car and entwines his fingers within mine, a sly smirk turning his lip. “You’re just used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”

I smile, his harmless teasing so much more appealing because of the way he says it. I’ve had to ask some of the locals I’ve met to repeat themselves, their accents are so thick. “What part of Ireland are you from?”

“Northern. We grew up in County Louth, just south of the border.” He leads me past the heavy yellow door of The Fine Needle. “Why?”

“Because I can actually understand you. It’s nice.”

His laughter fills the quiet cave-like shop that I’ve now been in twice in twenty-four hours. Somehow it feels different this time.

Ivy is standing at the computer, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, highlighting the shaved sides of her head. Her gaze bores into the forehead of a heavyset woman with a dozen rings through her left ear—much like Ivy’s piercings—who is busy scribbling her signature across the bottom of a sheet of paper. “First room on the left. I’ll be there in five minutes,” she instructs the woman with a light tone that I assume is reserved for clients. She even flashes a polite close-mouthed smile her way as she points in the direction. Urging the woman to move.

As soon as the customer is out of sight, Ivy tosses the clipboard with the signed waiver to the side, that professional smile replaced with a scowl.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

She rounds the desk, her knee-high boots exchanged for low ones and black leggings. The giant plum-colored shirt that reaches mid-thigh looks more like a potato sack than an article of clothing. “Like I want to stab myself in the eye with my needle,” she says, deadpan. “Seriously, I probably should cancel my appointments for the day and just throw myself into a well.”

“So you would recommend that I wait to get this done?” River grins, pulling a tucked sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolding it for her. It’s the same stag that’s on the Delaney T-shirts.

“If you want me to do it, then yeah. That woman back there?” She drops her voice and thumbs back toward where her customer left. “She’s so screwed. My cousin, Ian, could maybe do it for you today, though. If you don’t want to wait.”

“You said he’s not as good as you, though.”